


Walkin' After Midnight

by mynameisnoneya



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abusive Joffrey Baratheon, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Horror, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood and Violence, Brutal Murder, Creepy, F/M, Halloween, Inspired by Stephen King, Irony, Joffrey Baratheon is His Own Warning, Mild Gore, Mild Language, Revenge, Scary, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27292624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mynameisnoneya/pseuds/mynameisnoneya
Summary: It's Halloween night in 1955.  There's a full moon rising tonight, or so Sansa says.  Joffrey really should listen to her.  Sandor sure does.
Relationships: Joffrey Baratheon/Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 20
Kudos: 94





	Walkin' After Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written mostly for my own amusement and partly to help me get back into sharing my fanfiction again. I actually have several irons in the fire, including updates to current WIPs as well as some longer brand-new fics in the works, but since the Halloween season is upon us, I figured - why not start with this? So I decided to share this little nugget of tension and terror first!
> 
> Please note that I made sure to tag any and all characters that appear in this work, whether they have a speaking role or not.
> 
> General disclaimer: GoT characters and quotes belong to GRMM - I own nor claim nothing!
> 
> If you enjoyed this work, please let me know by leaving comments and kudos!

  
  
_Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand. Blood and revenge are hammering in my head._  
  
\- Shakespeare 

“Where the hell are we, anyway?” Joffrey asks as he peers outside his car window.

Before he answers, Sandor grits his teeth, willing himself to stay calm so he won’t rip his boss’s throat out like he wants. “I don’t know.”

“I swear I’ve seen those exact same trees already,” the young blond man grumbles while pointing at the densely wooded area passing by. “Are you sure we haven’t been this way?”

“No, we haven’t,” Sandor replies tersely, his grip on the steering wheel tightening.

“So, we’re lost then, aren’t we?” 

“It would appear that way.”

Joffrey harrumphs in irritation, and he pivots on his spot in the backseat of his granddaddy’s Bel Air so he can get a good glare going at his girlfriend who got him into this mess. His anger ratches up even further once he realizes she’s totally tuned out, not paying attention to him since she’s too busy leaning against her window, watching the sky whizzing by while humming along with the Patsy Cline song on the radio.

“Why the hell did I listen to you, anyway?” he barks, and she startles at the sheer volume of his rant. “You wouldn’t know a shortcut if it bit you in the ass!”

Sansa fidgets uncomfortably in her seat behind Sandor. “I’m really sorry, Joffrey. I thought since you were in such a hurry to get to Margaery’s place, we could save time if we - ”

“Just shut up, would you?” he snaps at her. “I should’ve listened to Dog when I had the chance. He warned me not to get off the main road without a map, but _nooooo_ , I had to go and trust your dumb advice. And look where that got me – I’m late to the party!”

Sandor’s jaw clenches. He hates that stupid nickname almost as much as he hates the way his boss treats Sansa.

Almost.

“Don’t worry,” Sansa tries to reassure him. “I’m sure we’ll get there in plenty of time for you to enjoy Margaery’s Halloween bash.”

“When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.” He glares at her then turns away, mumbling something inaudible as he folds his arms in front of his chest and slouches into his seat.

Focused on the deserted roadway ahead, Sandor white-knuckles the wheel. There’s nothing he’d like better than to get a hold of Joffrey, the miserable little cunt, and give that boy a throttling he’d never forget. No man should get away with how he treats Sansa.

Chancing a glance at the redhead through the rearview mirror, Sandor breathes deeply. The young woman’s body language reeks of resignation. She’s leaned up on the window again, her bright blue eyes drinking in the wooded scenery passing by them. She’s humming to herself again, too, her pretty voice light and airy. She’s disappeared inside her head like she always does when Joffrey is a dick, and it kills Sandor to see her like this.

Sansa deserves so much more than Joffrey, and not just because she’s rich and smart and beautiful and could have her pick of any man she desires, either. It’s because she’s kind and patient and genuine, so friendly and sweet. Sansa is everything the mean, self-centered jerk she’s dated for a couple of months now is not. Why she’s still with Joffrey is beyond him. She deserves to be with someone who will treat her like the princess she is.

_And who’s gonna do that, eh? You?_

Sandor’s burned lips purse. He’d do anything for her - anything at all - but there’s only so much a former solider battling his own demons can do. Ghosts from Korea still haunt him, the images of war jumbling together with his bad dreams from a youth spent under a sadistic older brother’s thumb. He’s got nothing to offer her, not that she’d ever consider him worth her time. He’s got no money or real future ahead of him since the only job someone who looks like him can get is exactly the kind of job he has right now – a hired gun for a family of questionable character and even more questionable connections.

Sandor sighs. He’ll never have a chance with a woman like that. He’s too scarred and too hairy and too angry. He just needs to quit daydreaming about her and hoping for something that’ll never come. Sansa is out of his league. Period.

Sandor shakes his head to get her out of it and reassesses their location. They’re still stuck on this winding old road that’s led them nowhere. They’ve not seen any signs of life in quite a while, come to think of it.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath when the car begins to shake and rattle.

“What’s going on?” Joffrey asks.

Sandor mutters a few more curses under his breath as he pulls over to the side of the road and puts it into park. “We’re out of gas.”

“Are you kidding me?” 

“I don’t ‘kid.’”

“How did that happen?!”

“Well,” Sandor says, swiping his huge hand over his face in frustration, “it happens when you don’t put enough gas in the car.” 

“How in the _hell_ is that possible?”

Sandor grits his teeth. “Probably because you told me not to stop to fill up since you were in a hurry.” 

Joffrey explodes like the spoiled brat he is. “Oh, this is just perfect!” he cries out, pummeling the top of the passenger seat in front of him. “I can’t believe this is happening to me!”

“Joffrey, please, I’m sure we’ll - ” Sansa tries.

“I thought I told you to shut up!” he yells at her. She shrieks when his hand raises. “This is all your fault! I never should’ve listened to you!” 

“Joffrey, no! Don’t!” Sandor’s deep voice echoes inside the car. He’s coiled like a spring as he whirls around in his seat, his pulse on edge when he sees Joffrey’s hand is poised in the air, ready to strike. “We gotta be getting close to gas station by now. I’ll hike up the road a ways while you two stay here. I’ll grab some gas and get back as fast as I can. Alright?”

Still fixated on Sansa, Joffrey’s green eyes narrow as he mulls it over. “Yeah, okay. Fine. Just be quick about it.” He lowers his hand, but without warning he lunges forward like he means to smack Sansa. “Boo!” he shouts, halting his hand right in front of her face, and when she recoils in terror, he cackles at her expense.

While Joffrey continues to laugh at his own shenanigans, Sandor grumbles to himself as he leans toward the glove box. He jerks out his gun and stuffs it behind his back in the waistband of his jeans. He rummages in the glove box again, this time pulling out a huge hunting knife.

“Here,” he says as he turns around and offers it to Joffrey. “Take this.”

“What for?”

“In case.”

“In case _what_?”

Sandor inhales and exhales slowly. He knows all too well what evil lurks in the hearts of men. He’s had a front-row seat to it since he was a kid. He doesn’t want to think about what might happen while he’s gone if the two young adults were accosted by some weirdo out looking for trouble. It’s Halloween night, for fuck’s sake. There’s no telling what could happen.

“Just take it, okay?” he says as he slaps the handle into Joffrey’s palm. “You never know when you might need it.”

Joffrey says nothing as he slowly unsheathes the serrated blade, his eyes wide with interest as he rotates it while examining it.

Slamming the glove box shut, Sandor sits up and grabs the door handle to exit, but before he opens it, a shiver shoots straight up his spine. In his rearview mirror, he catches sight of Sansa watching Joffrey, and when her lips pull back into a toothy grin, he wonders how what he said could have amused her.

“Well, go, already!” Joffrey insists, breaking Sandor out of his trance. “And change the damn channel before you leave. I’m sick of that country music the two of you like to listen to.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” Searching for something on the radio to placate his boss, Sandor steals another glance in the rearview mirror. Joffrey is poking the air with his knife like he’s stabbing an imagined foe while Sansa, who is no longer focused on her boyfriend, stares out her window once again.

“It sure is pretty tonight,” she says wistfully while the stringy clouds float by up in the rapidly darkening nighttime sky. “There’s even supposed to be a full moon.”

“Who cares?” Joffrey scoffs, still caught up in the thrill of pretending he knows how to use Sandor’s knife.

“ _You_ should,” Sansa whispers. Joffrey doesn’t hear her, but Sandor sure does.

Her ominous tone leaves Sandor vexed, but he shakes off his confusion, chalking it up to him worrying about Sansa once she is left alone with Joffrey, the nasty little weasel. Sandor says nothing as he opens the car door and exits. He starts walking alone along the side of the road.

With the sound of gravel crunching under his motorcycle boots, he lifts his eyes toward the sky, which for some reason has Sansa absolutely mesmerized tonight. It’ll be pitch black out here soon enough, and he’ll not be able to see his own hand in front of his face.

 _Lucky me there’s a full moon tonight,_ he tells himself as he flips up the collar of his leather jacket and trudges onward in the crisp, cool autumn air.

…ooo000ooo…

“Where the hell is he?” Joffrey asks as he peers out the windshield for the millionth time in twenty minutes.

“I’m sure he’s doing his best,” Sansa replies while gazing at the nighttime sky through her window. “There’s no telling how far poor Sandor had to walk.”

“‘Poor Sandor,’” Joffrey repeats in a mocking tone.

Sansa looks his way.

“What about me?” he asks.

She says nothing, just sits there blinking at him.

The vein in Joffrey’s forehead throbs. “ _I’m_ supposed to be out having fun tonight, not stuck on the side of the road in the middle of bumblefuck!” He scoffs at her, shaking his head in irritation, and mumbles something about her stupidity under his breath while he glares out his window.

Sansa forces herself not to smile. “At least we’ve only missed half the party.”

His green eyes cut to her. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“Well, I thought it would.”

“Do me a favor, yeah? Don’t think,” he says flatly.

When Joffrey looks away again, Sansa presses her lips together to stave off her giggles. He’s such an immature brat who acts more like three than twenty-three, and it amuses her to no end when she feigns ignorance just to rattle his cage. Grinning to herself, she slips out of the red velvet cloak she wore as part of her costume, folding it neatly and placing it on the floorboard by her feet. While Joffrey grumbles to himself, she returns her attention to the view outside her window. 

The dark sky is soothing, the breeze swirling the brassy colored leaves in the air in a joyful autumn dance. Her head rests on the window, and she wonders how she ever wound up with a guy like Joffrey. He’s the total opposite of everything she’d ever wanted in a man, except for the handsome part. As a young girl, she daydreamed of finding a knight like in the fairytales her father used to read to her, an honest, brave, and noble man who would fight to defend her honor and to protect her from the dangers of the world. Instead she picked an arrogant, hateful man who takes pleasure in the misery of others.

Her thoughts ebb and flow while she searches for the first signs of the full moon, and while she studies the blackening sky, she thinks of Sandor. It’s funny how when she first started dating Joffrey, she was so scared of his enormous bodyguard. It’s true that Sandor can be rather harsh at times, but he is also gentle and kind in his way. He cares about her deeply, too. She can sense it by the way he tries to protect her from Joffrey. Even tonight, Sandor risked his job to stick up for her when it looked like Joffrey was going to hit her.

The corner of Sansa’s mouth lifts. Sandor may not look like one of the handsome knights she dreamed of falling in love with long ago, but he’s a knight to her all the same. For all his bluster, he’s a softy on the inside, and all he needs is the right woman to bring it to the surface. He’s the kind of guy who’d move heaven and earth for the woman who would love him in return. He’d walk through fire or fight a zombie to keep his lady safe, unlike Joffrey, who’d probably faint where he stood.

She steals a glance at Joffrey, and she’s struck by the irony of the costume he chose for tonight’s party. He certainly does look like a vampire with his blond hair all slicked back and the high-necked white dress shirt and the fake teeth currently stuffed in the pocket of his trousers. Joffrey doesn’t need a costume, though. He’s a blood-sucking creature, all right. Lord knows he’s almost sucked the life out of her these last few months.

 _Not much longer,_ she reminds herself as she continues to study him. _You’ll be rid of him soon enough._

Her eyes drift to the window again, searching the sky for the moon.

It should make itself known any time.

And it can’t come soon enough.

“Gah, I’m _so_ bored.” Joffrey exhales in a whoosh, tugging at his collar in irritation. 

“Well, we could play a game if you like,” Sansa says, still not turning to face him. “It might help pass the time.”

He turns to tell her how stupid her idea is, but when he notices her long, stockinged legs pouring out from the knee-length hemline of her Little Red Riding Hood costume, he grins from ear to ear instead. He’s not seen the rest of her get-up since he and Sandor picked her up from her parents’ house over an hour ago. It’s the first time he’s gotten an eyeful of that tight, floofy white blouse and faux-leather corset.

“You read my mind,” he says as he scoots closer, licking his lips in anticipation. 

She startles when his hand grabs her knee, rucking up her skirt to her thigh. “Joffrey! What are doing?”

“I think you know what I’m doing.”

“Joffrey, please . . .” Sansa grabs his wrist. “We’re in public!”

“Pfft,” he scoffs, enveloping her in an embrace with his other arm. “We’re in the middle of nowhere. No one’s gonna hear a thing.”

When he descends, her protest is swallowed by his onslaught. He’s absolutely relentless, his kisses all sloppy and boorish. Things escalate quickly, and before she can break free, he’s pawing and groping and squeezing her everywhere all at once. She can barely catch a breath while he tries to devour her, but when he starts peppering her neck with kisses, she finally can breathe.

“Stop, please!” she begs, wriggling and squirming to find a way to get him off her, but he’s too strong and too determined. He ignores her, pressing her into the backseat with his body weight even harder than before.

“Joffrey, stop!”

He doesn’t listen, instead shoving her corset higher and higher.

“I mean it – stop! I don’t want to do this!”

“Quit being such a tease,” he grumbles as he roughly grabs her breasts through the fabric of blouse.

“Ow! You’re hurting me!”

“Then stop fighting, and I won’t!” he shouts, and when his palm meets her cheek, tears form in the corners of her eyes. The evil smirk that shoots across his face tells her all she needs to know.

He means to have her whether she wants it or not.

She chances a glance above her, and through the window she can see the hazy shadow of the moon hiding behind the thick clouds. 

_You’ll never do this to a woman again,_ she thinks. _I’ll make sure of that._

“Rough or easy. You pick.” His blond brow lifts in challenge while he waits.

“Joffrey . . . please . . .”

“ _Pick._ ”

She says nothing as she drops her arms to her sides, relaxing her entire body as if she’s resigned to her fate. He’s all smiles now that he’s won, and it’s not two seconds before he’s got her blouse jerked out of her skirt and his hand shoved inside her bra.

The cold wind outside the car pummels the windows, howling and whining in protest. Time and space grind to a slow, hazy blur while she stares at the nighttime sky, searching for her signal that her time has come. Any moment now, it will all be over. It will be over on her terms, not his.

And when the clouds part and reveal the glowing, silvery white sphere in the sky, she finally sees the sign she’s been waiting for.

“Does Margaery like it rough when you fuck her?” Sansa asks without introduction.

The sheer audacity of her question has Joffrey rearing back in an absolute rage. “If you don’t shut . . . up . . .” His throat constricts with a gasp, his eyes blown wide with both confusion and terror.

Sansa’s baby blues have become a fiery yellow.

“Well, does she?”

The quiet hum of the radio drones on in its indifference, and when Sansa bares her teeth, all shiny and sharp, Joffrey screams.

“Boo!” she shouts, and she laughs and laughs when he launches off her lap like a cat on fire, scrambling to find his footing in the cramped space in the backseat. She slowly sits up, not bothering to cover herself, and his screams for help amuse her while he fumbles with the car doorhandle.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere, remember?” she tuts at him. “No one will hear a thing.”

In shock, Joffrey looks over his shoulder and shrieks in horror. Sansa’s face is morphing and elongating into something out of a nightmare. He continues screaming with every fiber of his being as her clothes rip into shreds, her lithe body expanding into an ungodly muscular wolf-like form. Her creamy smooth skin disappears under a thick layer of ruddy fur, her light pink nails growing into razor-sharp claws. He’s utterly terrified yet can’t look away from the ghastly beast next to him.

Now fully changed, Sansa blinks as her eyesight adjusts. She assesses her prey, and her hideous smile scares the little man who just moments ago thought he hung the moon. Her pun makes her chuckle, but her laughter pours forth as a rich growl from deep within her chest, and it’s that growl which snaps Joffrey out of his petrified trance. 

Screaming for help that doesn’t come, Joffrey finally shoves open the car door. He can’t find his footing, stumbling since he forgot about his unzipped pants in his haste to flee. He lands in the dirt beside the car but manages to get to his feet, tripping on rocks and sticks as he runs from the car and down the embankment and straight into the woods. Limbs and branches scrape his face as he runs, his chest heaving from exhaustion. A howl echoes in the distance, and his entire body quivers in panic.

He runs and runs until he can’t run any more, and when he happens upon a clearing, he collapses at the edge of a small pond. The light of the full moon illuminates the slight ripples of the water, and when on his knees he looks at his reflection, he notices blood tricking down his forehead. He dips a hand into the water, the cool liquid washing away both his sweat and blood. He lifts his head, straining to hear any sign of the beast. He hears nothing but the owl hooting in the distance, and for a moment, he thinks he may have gotten lucky.

He turns to dip his hands into the water again, but he yells in utter terror. Towering over his own reflection is that of the beast – _Sansa_ – and when he tries to clamber to his feet and escape, it lunges.

…ooo000ooo…

“Where the hell are they?” Sandor asks himself as he makes his way down the deserted road toward the Bel Air.

Thanks to the moonlight shining in the clear sky, he sees the back door to the car is wide open. He can also see that Sansa and Joffrey aren’t where they’re supposed to be, either. Glancing toward the woods, he squints hard, hoping he might catch sight of them wandering. No luck. He scans the opposite side of the lonely road but still sees neither hide nor hair of the two young adults.

 _Probably had to go take a piss is all,_ Sandor reassures himself while he rests the gas can by the car. When he stoops, he notices a pile of shredded fabric lying on the ground by his boots. Curious, he squats to get a closer look. His heart races when he lifts a scrap and realizes what it is.

It’s from her costume.

At least, it _was_ her costume.

A thousand possible scenarios – each one equally as grim – churn through his consciousness as he shoves his head into the open car and assesses the situation. In the backseat, there are signs of a struggle. What’s left of Sansa’s costume is tattered and torn, save for the red velvet cloak folded neatly on the floorboard. His hunting knife is lying unsheathed on the seat as well, but it is clean as a whistle.

Jerking his head out of the backseat, Sandor surveys the area surrounding the car where the door is open, and he notices footprints in the dirt which lead down the embankment toward the woods. Following closely behind those footprints he also sees animal tracks, the likes of which he’s never encountered. Although the tracks look like something a dog would make, they’re the size of his own feet. 

_Holy hell._

Sandor swallows hard.

Whatever happened to those two, it happened quickly and without warning.

“Sansa!” he shouts again and again as he sprints toward the woods. “Can you hear me? Where are you?” All he can hear are his own footsteps as his boots pound into the ground and his pulse slamming into his ears. He ducks and dodges limb after limb, the adrenaline pumping and pushing him to run faster than he ever has, even when he was fighting at Heartbreak Ridge.

The moonlight cuts a path for him as he dashes through the forest. He keeps shouting for Sansa, but his shouts go unanswered, and the more he yells while he runs, the worse he imagines her fate. He all but levitates as he makes his way through the woods, and before long, he’s standing at the edge of the tree line overlooking a clearing. He pauses to catch his breath, but before he can rest too long, he hears an animal growl.

Years of military training kick in, his gun drawn from his waistband and cocked, ready to fire. He points it toward the surrounding darkness, his ears pricked as he tries to locate the origin of the sound. Stepping slowly into the clearing, he spins round and round, searching for whatever may be lurking.

The moonlight overhead gleams brightly upon the clearing, and as he creeps into the open area, he makes his way toward a lump lying by the pond. The closer he gets, his gray eyes widen in shock.

It’s Joffrey.

At least, it _was_ Joffrey _._

Sandor swallows hard.

Whatever happened to him, it happened quickly and without warning.

 _No open casket for you, motherfucker,_ Sandor thinks as he stares at the bloody hole where Joffrey’s throat once was.

A twig snaps behind him, and he’s whipping around, gun pointed, bracing himself for whatever wicked this way comes. He quickly scans the clearing, desperate to make out whatever it is that was capable of the carnage it created. Another twig breaks and several leaves rustle when something scurries across it.

“Show yourself, damn you!” Sandor shouts into the darkness. “C’mon!”

On cue, out of the shadows emerges something out of an EC Comic. It’s neither man nor wolf, caught somewhere between both. It’s walking on two legs but hunched like it might drop and run on four legs any second. Stalking toward him, the beast emits a blood-curdling growl, its mouth full of huge white teeth sparkling and its golden eyes glowing.

“Where’s Sansa?” he yells, even though in his gut he knows how ridiculous it is to try and reason with a monster. “What did you do to her?” 

Still growling, the wolf-like creature continues to approach.

“Where is she?” he shouts again. He pulls the trigger slowly, aiming straight for the beast’s heart. He locks on his target, ready to fire, even if he doubts the caliber of his weapon will do much damage to it. “I swear to the old gods,” Sandor says through gritted teeth, “I’ll turn you into a rug if you even thought about touching that girl.”

The creature pauses in its tracks, tilting its head like it is listening to him. It makes a god-awful noise like it’s moaning, and before he can blink, it’s lifting its huge arms like it wants to surrender. Then the beast drops to its knees as if it is waiting for Sandor to decide what fate it will receive.

Sandor blinks.

_What the actual fuck . . ._

Hesitantly he approaches, step by step, his gun still trained on the beast. The yellow eyes never leave his while he draws closer and closer, and once he’s an arm’s length away, he stops. There is something uncanny about the calmness the creature is showing him right now. It’s almost like it _knows_ him. 

“Where is she?” Sandor asks again, although this time he forces himself to sound calm.

A shiver jolts through him when the beast grunts at him like it understands. He almost squeezes the trigger when it hops to its feet and runs into the woods, but when it turns around like it’s waiting for him to follow, Sandor releases it.

“You want me to follow you, is that it?”

Again the beast grunts before it disappears into the woods.

“I’m going mad,” Sandor whispers aloud. “I’m dreaming or I’m mad. I can’t believe I’m fucking doing this.”

He’s running yet again, this time chasing the wolf-like creature wherever it is leading him. He can barely keep up with its brutal pace, but he refuses to lose track of it. Dodging branches and leaping over logs, Sandor makes his way through the forest, and it’s only moments before he’s standing at the bottom of the embankment, looking up at the Bel Air once again. He’s shocked when he sees the beast waiting for him by the open car door.

“What happened to her?” Sandor asks, taking slow, deliberate steps toward the creature. It makes a hideous sound somewhere between a growl and a groan, but for some reason he can’t quite put his finger on, Sandor isn’t afraid. He watches as the beast drops to all fours, snuffling at the scraps of costume Sansa was wearing earlier. The beast then makes a sound like a puppy whimpering, and it is in that moment that it clicks.

“Sansa?” Sandor hesitates. Surely he’s gone mad now. “Is it you?”

The wolfish creature with the reddish fur releases a howl that should make Sandor quake in his boots.

But he doesn’t.

“Holy fucking hell,” he says in a woosh. “It _is_ you, isn’t it?” Against his better judgment, he lowers his gun. When he does, the creature - _Sansa_ \- pounces on him, knocking him to the ground. Its - _her_ \- muzzle is in his face, sniffing and licking him and nuzzling against him. “Jesus, this is _not_ how I imagined you riding me,” he laughs while ruffing the beast’s - _Sansa’s_ \- fur. “Alright, alright - off already!” When he is able to stand again, he looks over his shoulder toward the woods then back at the wolf-like being.

“Does your family know about all this?” he says, waving her direction.

She doesn’t move but appears to be listening.

“They do, don’t they?”

Again she remains silent.

“I bet the whole damn pack of you Starks are like this, aren’t you?”

Sansa gruffles.

Sandor’s hand swipes over his face. “Of course, they are,” he says, sighing heavily. Shaking his head, he stuffs his gun into the waistband of his jeans. “Look, you need to hide. No one can see you like this. Get into the woods, and I’ll figure things out.” In an instant, Sansa is bounding down the embankment. “And please don’t rip anyone else’s throat out tonight!” he shouts as she disappears.

Glancing around him, Sandor decides he’ll need to call Bronn for this one. Thank goodness at least one of the Lannisters’ shady connections owes him a favor. Spinning on his boot heels, Sandor starts walking toward the gas station he visited not an hour ago to use the phone booth.

 _Lucky me there’s a full moon tonight,_ he chuckles to himself as he flips up the collar of his leather jacket and trudges onward in the crisp, cool autumn air.

**Author's Note:**

> "Death in the horror movies is when the monster gets you." - Stephen King


End file.
